


Burning

by maliciousfisheeves



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, Prequel, such is our curse is NOT necessary to read but you may want to if so inclined, type thing i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliciousfisheeves/pseuds/maliciousfisheeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorian didn't intend to be skeptical of his fate, but he pried too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd write something shorter while I worked on my longer fic! Also because a very nice commenter on another fic asked that I write more about these two. This one focuses mostly on Lorian, and it's sort of a prequel.

            Lorian was never originally skeptical of the prospect of the first flame, of becoming a Lord of Cinder, but he was curious.

            How could he not? It was his fate, of course he’d want to know more.

 

            There were many late nights spent alone by candle light, searching for all the fragments of knowledge. Much of it was lost, that which remained couched in guesswork and scholarly rambling—none of which helped him, really, but it did begin to develop his ideas.

            The flame was a curse, a blessing, somewhere in between. No one really knew, but it was said that which was below (whatever that meant) rose above and tied humanity to the flame. Why? No one knew.

 

It was frustrating, but Lorian had other things he had to focus on. Fighting the ailing demon mass was to be a great task, so he set his curiosity aside for the time being.

            He’d been fighting for a long time—well, in comparison to how old he was. He was a young man and he’d killed more than he cared to admit, skilled in his art despite his age, but that never meant he took great pleasure in it. The idea of being pleased with all that he’d cut down disgusted him, repulsing him greatly. Enough to halt any ideas of taking life without… regret? Or perhaps it was respect. He didn’t know.

            When he was told to take his remaining men to defeat the demon prince, Lorian was uncertain. He couldn’t say no, more out of his own pride than anything, but he wasn’t sure he was going to come back at all, let alone in one piece.

            But he rode. He fought. He had many die by his side, much to pain his heart, but he fought long and hard until he came upon the final place of the demon prince, the demon king nowhere to be seen. He would have been frustrated were he not exhausted. To ride and fight so many, to lose so much, only to not even finish what had been started.

 

            The demon prince looked at him with a sort of sadness, and something began to dawn upon Lorian, but at that moment, as the two fought for their lives and that which they lived for, and so his thoughts were set aside whilst the flaming prince did its best to turn Lorian into none but ash.

            He saw the fear that lingered in the other’s red eyes, which glowed like empty hollow suns within its—their—skull, and felt something similar in his own soul. The terror of death lingered on the prince even after the deed was done, and the demon prince lay dead at the end of his sword.

            Lorian had only enough energy to pull his sword from its corpse, gasping for breath. He was powerless as something began to leech up the blade, glowing molten like fire, turning the sword black. Perhaps the fear of death was so great, the demon prince’s soul lingered in his sword.

            He didn’t know, nor did he have it examined. He made sure to yank his weapon out of the hands of any snooping individual—be it scholar or official or smith. Something about it made him awfully possessive of it, he didn’t know why. It was his, his alone, if there was the possibility of another haunting its depths then there would be none to find out. So many curious at his return, so fews’ curiosity sated.

            At least, for a while that was.

 

            “Brother? The weapon at your side seems different. May I examine it?” Lothric asked moderately, not looking at him, letting beams of sunlight his his face instead.

 

            Lorian couldn’t say no to Lothric—not at such a simple request. So he put his great sword into his brother’s hands for a moment, much to the annoyance of the many others present who’d been denied (quite rudely) beforehand.

            Lothric squinted, despite not being able to see, and retracted his bony fingers, bringing them back to his sides.

 

            “A demon’s final curse. Your opponent certainly wanted you dead, even in their final moments.” Lothric said simply, but gravely.

 

            Ha! Lorian thought, but didn’t say. A thought occurred—he wondered for moment, but tucked his ideas aside for later.

 

 

            He attended the celebration, allowing himself to enjoy the night. He wasn’t sure if he was a fan of these types of celebrations, at least for the reason that it seemed to be a time of impractical ramblings about how great everything was, which amounted to attention gathering for the court and its attendees. But there was dancing and fine food, so he attended himself for as long as he could bare it.

            It didn’t help that his father and mother seemed to talk down to… most of the subjects. The soldiers who’d been killed were given a brief bit of integrity, and that was all. Lorian was the only who spoke for them. He threw but slight gloom upon the crowd, making many uncomfortable at the prospect of having to think about those who’d been killed and all that had been lost. He still, however, celebrated that they’d won the day.

            Eventually he grew tired of the court and retreated, finding Lothric amongst the crowd whilst he exited.

 

            “Would you like to leave, brother?” Lorian asked.

 

            Lothric simply answered yes, but the way he looked it was as though Lorian had thrown him a life raft in a storm. Lorian smiled a bit to himself afterwards.

 

            “Why don’t you like parties?” Lorian asked, sitting in their room.

 

            “Too loud, all of it… rolls over me, I suppose. It is as though I’m being overwhelmed.” Lothric said.

 

            Lorian nodded. He prepared himself for bed, but before he was allowed to let his mind rest, Lothric spoke again.

 

            “I liked your speech. It was very honest.” Lothric said quietly, and then retired.

 

            Afterwards, it was as though Lorian had forgotten how to unwind. All the thoughts he’d tucked away came falling out, as though he’d opened up a closest full of clothing (Like that time in the barracks, that wasn’t fun—for him, at least) and it all came spilling out and smothering him.

            Honest? He was honest? He didn’t know about that. Speaking one’s mind without stepping on another’s toes was difficult for the prince, the fated Lord of Cinder. He understood being gentle in sensitive situations, for there were matters that required delicacy, but this was different. This was flippant courts forgetting how many were lost because it was not the most “important” thing to them, for there were but a school of ravenous piranhas.

            When he spoke at lengths of the bravery of some, they stared with wide eyes at even the hint of their own humanity. That somewhere compassion lied, waiting.

 

            Humanity. Eyes.  Burning eyes.

 

            His brain leapt to another matter—a burning image in his mind. Red, searing eyes, staring at him. It sent a chill up his spine, and so he stamped the image aside, casting it away while he could.

            He turned back, he needed to think of something else. He needed to busy his mind.

 

            Lorian didn’t know what time his was, but he carefully got out of his bed, and started to leave. He grabbed his sword—he wasn’t sure why, but something about it made the idea of leaving it behind unappealing. His gaze flickered to Lothric for a moment, and he did his best to quietly open and close the door. It barely clicked as it shut.

            The hallways were silent and dark, hardly but a candle lighting his way. He navigated the dark castle, going down stairs until he arrived in the archives, which themselves were pitch black. Not a sliver of moonlight dared enter.

            He grumbled, and grabbed a candle scone and marched into the grand library and started pulling down books about the demons themselves. There was certainly more on them than the First Flame itself, and slowly he began to work through his curiosity.

            At least, at first. As he dug deeper he found himself needing to know more, stirring up more and more questions.

 

            A separate flame, a mistake was made.

            Born of the flame, the demons arose.

            The flame lasted long, but it couldn’t last forever.

 

            Lorian grew tired, and laid his head on the desk for a moment.

 

            So the ailing demons stayed and fought, but for how much longer? Lorian had already noticed how less and less demons appeared, and how little was left of the great demon flame. The demon prince themselves had only utilized its inborne fire during the latter half of its fight, but even then it seemed exhausted. When they’d journeyed to the accursed place, it seemed hollow, its great fading flame starting to whisper its demise. At the time it was cause for a little celebration.

            Lorian stumbled upon… an idea he wasn’t sure he was a fan of. It was a slow realization, much of his being resisting it, but no matter how hard he tried it arose from the dark nonetheless.

            How different was he from the demon prince—at least, on a physical level. Not actual appearance wise, but in terms of _being_. They were both born of a flame, their only difference that it appeared throwing demons to theirs didn’t make it relight, but nevertheless a flame. A flame which faded over time.

            Lorian felt a sudden fear strike him, so horrible, as though he was being pierced by a spear. It terrified him so much he leapt from his chair, nearly flipping it and the table.

            Fear lingered, dwelling in the prince. His mind hadn’t quite made any more connections, but the thought that it would scared him further.

            He wasn’t even really sure why he was scared, but nevertheless he snuffed the candle and started to walk away, holding himself. It felt like something was looming all around him, lying in wait—slight comfort was given by keeping himself together.

            Lorian didn’t care he’d look like a child if he’d be found—oh well. If he was caught, scurrying around in the dark like an idiot hugging himself then it would be but a temporary embarrassment, if one at all.

            The walk began to feel a _lot_ longer as he travelled through the dim hallways, and it seemed as though all the candles had been snuffed out, but finally beams of moonlight trailed through the windows, illuminating his path back to his room.

            He promised he would not dwell on this any longer. He’d never look at another tome about fire at all if he could avoid it.

 

 

            It began to feel as though he was somehow missing his own room. The hallway dragged on and on, as if he was in some section of the castle he’d never been to.

            Lorian squinted, frowning. He rubbed his eyes, looking behind himself, then forward again. Had he somehow taken a wrong turn? He didn’t recall any seemingly endless hallways anywhere, however.

 

            Lorian turned around again, and felt as though something as breathing in his ear. He whirled around, saw nothing. His heart began to beat rapidly in his chest, and he hugged his arms closer.

            Well, now not only was he beginning to be creeped out, he was also unsure what direction he just came from.

 

            “This cannot be happening” he groaned, slapping his own forehead. He felt like an idiot—what kind of prince doesn’t know how to get around his own castle? A poor one at that, probably.

 

            He grumbled a bit and chose to walk straight forward, looking outside occasionally to see whereabouts the moon was. Hopefully it wasn’t too late, he needed to be awake early tomorrow.

            When he stepped towards the window and looked into the sky, he saw a pale red moon midway through the night. He squinted and stepped back, looking down the endless hallway and saw two burning red orbs in the dark.

            Two red eyes, swathed by dark. Two hollow suns hanging in the air, staring at him, not blinking, unwavering.

 

            He stopped, frozen. A demon? But how?

 

            His heart pounded in his chest as though it were trying to escape. He had no weapon, he could only run.

            So he took off, but the beast was faster. It caught onto his heels, and it was as though the darkness itself was trying to grab at him, snagging him. Something grabbed his ankle, tearing him onto the ground, he clawed desperately, feeling the demon throw him onto his back so he could see it.

            But it was enclosed in the dark, formless and unwavering. Burning eyes searing into his mind.

            Before the demon swept upon him in its final blow, he screamed.

 

 

            Lorian banged his knee on the underside of the table when he awoke, a piece of paper sticking to his cheek. He groaned, cursing under his breath and looking around.

            It was still pitch black, but he wasn’t dead. Lorian stared at his great sword, which sat beside him in its scabbard.

 

            Perhaps the demon’s curse was not what he thought it was.

 

 

            When he dragged himself back to bed, he elected to keep the sword at a distance, to perhaps delay more cogitations of the flame. To stop his strengthening suspicions lest he cause yet more trouble.

            But such things did not lie buried.

 

 

 

            Lorian still thought, often about the flame, about himself. About his brother, and found more and more that his distaste grew and grew for… most things.

            Lorian never really had that many friends in the first place—he was never allowed himself to form attachments, knowing he’d die at some point he would never be sure of, for the good of everyone else.

            But then something clicked—why did he have to set himself to the fire? What had ever made him be the one to be cursed? or his brother? They were not asked, they were told. It was their duty that for everyone else's sake they  _burned_. But Lorian didn't care if the court fell to pieces, and though he knew that there were good people outside the castle and even within, he couldn't care. They didn't matter to him; the thought that his brother, a man who had been so damaged by the  _need_ for the flame to go on—it disgusted him. It disgusted him down to the very depths of his soul, even if it was selfish.

           If they did not care about him, or his brother, then Lorian would ensure that he would always be there for him. He had no qualms of accepting Lothric's curse, for as time grew on and more and more of Lorian's own quiet reservation grew, Lothric was there to assure him he was never wrong. That they were cursed together.

 

            Lorian resigned himself to quiet ideas of rebellion, but he would never act upon without his brother.

 

            Never.

 

            If they were to be cursed—it would be together.


End file.
